Vice (15 page)

She was watching for the Duke of Redmayne. But even as she watched, she wondered if perhaps he was already in the house. The door knocker had been sounding for the last hour, and the customary evening buzz was in the air. Hurried footsteps, giggles, rushed whispers, came from outside her door as the girls returned to their chambers for some minor repair. She hadn’t yet heard a male voice, but presumably they were still drinking tea and conversing in the drawing room as if this mansion on Russell Street was a conventional, fashionable household.

“’Ere we are, then.” Bella staggered in under the weight of a laden tray. She was followed by a flunky bearing a tray with bottles and glasses. He set the tray on a low table before the empty grate and studiously avoided looking at Juliana in her robe of seduction. Presumably that was a rule of the house, she thought. He turned and left, again without acknowledgment, and Bella began to lay out covered dishes on the table.

“Now, ’Is Grace is partial to the claret,” she instructed. “It’s the right year, Mr. Garston says, so we won’t ’ave to worry about that. Now, there’s lemonade for you. The girls don’t usually drink when they ’ave a gentleman. But there’s a wine glass if the duke wants ye to join ’im.” She
examined the table, tapping her finger against her teeth. “Now, there’s lobster patties, an’ a little salad of sparrow-grass. ’Is Grace is right partial to sparrowgrass, dressed with a little oil an’ vinegar.”

Juliana was not particularly fond of asparagus, and lobster brought her out in spots, but of course her own wishes were of no importance. There was also a bowl of strawberries and a basket of sweetmeats that in other circumstances might have enticed her; however, she was feeling too sick with nerves to contemplate eating anything.

“Now, is that everything?” Bella counted on her fingers as she inspected the room in minute detail. “There’s fresh ’ot water in the jug on the washstand. Should I turn down the bed, or will ye do it, miss? It’s ’ard to know what’d be best. Some gentlemen likes to feel that they’re bein’ seduced and don’t want to come into the room and see it all ready, like. But others don’t care to waste time.”

“Leave it as it is,” Juliana said, knowing that she could not sit and wait for the duke beside a turned-down bed.

“Right y’are then.” Bella took one last look at Juliana, made a final adjustment to a ruffle at the sleeve of the white robe, then dropped a little curtsy. “If ye needs anythin’, miss, jest pull the bell. I’ll knock ’afore I comes in.”

“Thank you, Bella.” Juliana managed a smile.

“A’course I’ll come to ye as soon as ’Is Grace leaves.” The girl stood with her hand on the door. “Ye’ll be wantin’ a salt bath then, I daresay, bein’ a maid an’ all. An’ I expect ye’ll be glad of a mug of’ot milk an’ rum.” With a quick smile she whisked herself out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Juliana stood in the middle of the chamber, arms crossed convulsively over her breasts. A salt bath! So matter-of-fact. How many virgins had Bella prepared for the loss of their maidenheads? And then it occurred to her that losing one’s virginity in this knowledgeable, comforting, female-centered house was infinitely preferable to being bedded to Sir John Ridge, carried to the bridal chamber amid a chorus of obscene jokes from drunken male wedding guests who had
abandoned her to her fate at the chamber door. She’d known very little about what was in store for her. Lady Forsett had not thought fit to prepare her husband’s ward for her wedding night. She knew a little more now, but not much.

The door opened as she stood there. Her hands fell to her sides, sweat trickling down her rib cage. The Duke of Redmayne quietly closed the door behind him. He turned to Juliana. His gray gaze held hers for a minute in the charged silence, then drifted slowly down her body. He smiled and stepped lightly toward her.

G
ood,” Tarquin said, taking her hands. “I’m glad to see you’re not using paint or rouge. I forgot to tell Mistress Dennison that I don’t care for it … or at least,” he added, “not on you.” He stepped away from her, still holding her hands, and scrutinized her appearance again.

“You’re very specific about your preferences, my lord duke.” Juliana’s voice was low and flat as she tried to hide the rush of heat that suffused her skin at his narrow-eyed inspection.

“No more than most men,” he said carelessly. “My preferences change from time to time, as I’m sure you’ll discover.”

“I trust I’ll learn my duties quickly enough to please you, my lord duke.” She dropped her eyes, knowing that they were blazing with impotent fury.

Tarquin caught her chin between finger and thumb and obliged her to lift her face. He chuckled. “You look ready to consign me to the fires of hell,
mignonne”

“Unfortunately, I have no pitchfork,” she snapped, unable to resist.

“Did I offend you? I beg your pardon,” he said with such an abrupt change of tone and manner that Juliana was
completely thrown off balance. And before she could recover herself, he had kissed her. A delicate, featherlike brush of his lips on hers that brought goose bumps pricking on her skin.

“I can be a little imperious on occasion,” Tarquin said gravely, caressing her cheek with a fingertip. “It’s a consequence of my upbringing, I’m afraid. But I give you leave to take me to task at the right moment.”

“And when would that be?”

“Times such as this. When we’re private and engaged in …” He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “In intimate conversation.” He continued to stroke her cheek, and insensibly she began to relax, the lines of her face softening, her mouth parting, her eyes losing their fierceness.

When he felt the change in her, Tarquin released her chin with a smile. He left her in the middle of the room and went to pour himself a glass of wine. “Do you care for claret, Juliana?”

“Yes, please.” Maybe the members of the Dennisons’ seraglio
were
supposed to eschew alcohol during their working hours, but Juliana felt the need of Dutch courage. She took the glass he handed her and gulped down the contents.

With a slight frown, Tarquin took the empty glass from her and placed it on the table. “Are you frightened,
mignonne?”

“No.” But her hands were twisting themselves into impossible knots against the skirt of the robe.

He leaned back against the table, sipping his claret, his eyes seeing right through the brave denial. “Tell me what happened on your wedding night.”

Juliana blinked. “You mean apart from nearly suffocating and then hitting my husband with a hot warming pan and killing him?”

“Yes, apart from that.”

“Why do you wish to know?”

“I would like to understand certain things,” he said.
“Did your husband touch you in the ways of love? Did he arouse you in any way?”

Juliana just shook her head. Sir John had simply fallen upon her on the bed.

“Were you naked?”

She nodded.

“So you know what a man’s body feels like? You know what it looks like?” He was asking the questions with an almost clinical detachment.

“I know what it feels like to be almost suffocated,” she declared. In truth she could remember little else of that dreadful half hour. John’s body had been a great mass of sweating flesh pressing her into the bed, striving and struggling to do something that she knew he hadn’t succeeded in doing.

Tarquin nodded. “Then let’s assume that you know nothing at all.” He set his glass down and hooked the ottoman toward him with one foot. Sitting down, he beckoned her.

Juliana approached tentatively.

The duke drew her between his knees and, with a leisurely movement, untied the girdle at her waist. The robe fell open, and he drew the sides farther apart so he could look upon her body. Juliana shivered. He put his hands on her. They were warm and hard and assured. She stood, his knees pressing against her thighs, her skin alternately hot and icy cold as his hands moved over her hips; his thumbs traced the sharp outline of her hipbones; his breath was warm on her belly. His hands spanned her waist, slipped up over her rib cage, gently cupped her breasts.

When he bent his head and took her nipple into his mouth, Juliana’s body became a battleground of sensation, the urge to yield to the glorious liquid warmth seeping through her veins striving against a panicked instinct not to submit, because in doing so she would lose some part of her self.

Her eyes caught her reflection in the mirror. She gazed at her white body, the curve of her breasts and belly,
framed in the delicate froth of her robe. The candlelight caught auburn glints in the bent head against the whiteness of her breast. And then his hands moved on her, slipped slowly over her belly. She watched, in a trance, as her eyes grew heavy and glowing, her skin flushed; her lips, moist and pink, parted on a swift breath as he touched her, opened her. It was as if she were watching some other woman, some other man; watching the woman dissolve with the exquisite pleasure that built deep in the pit of her stomach. She was watching, and yet it was she who was dissolving. From her own lips came the little sobbing cries of wonder. It was her own eyes that grew huge as they stared back at her, the irises black and glowing in the jade depths; then her mirror image was engulfed in the rushing climactic wave that filled every pore of her body, so that her eyes closed and her knees turned to honey.

Tarquin drew her down onto his lap as she fell against him. He held her lightly, stroking her hair. His loins were heavy with his own desire as she shifted on his knee and he inhaled the delicate fragrance of the perfume she wore mingled with the rich scents of her fulfillment.

“Come.” He lifted her into his arms, reflecting a little wryly that one wouldn’t want to carry this luscious body any great distance. He laid her on the bed and stood looking down at her. Her eyes were still dazed, her skin still flushed.

Juliana closed her eyes abruptly. How had it happened? How had she lost herself so completely? “Open your eyes, Juliana.”

She obeyed the soft command almost involuntarily. Tarquin removed his coat and began unbuttoning his waistcoat.

Juliana sat up. She gazed now with candid curiosity as he removed his clothes, every movement orderly and efficient. As he doffed each rich garment, he laid it over the chair. Her eyes widened as he took off” the fine cambric shirt. But she had little time to become accustomed to his naked torso before he had pushed off his britches and drawers.

Juliana’s breath caught in her throat as she stared at him, realizing helplessly that she was examining him as carefully as he’d scrutinized her when he had opened her robe.

Naked, the Duke of Redmayne was lean and sinewy, muscles rippling beneath taut, smooth skin. He was slim-hipped and broad-shouldered, a line of dark hair creeping over his belly to join the wiry tangle at the apex of his long thighs. Her gaze fixed upon his shaft of flesh, and she remembered feeling it puking against her belly when he’d kissed her in the morning room of his house on Albermarle Street.

“Well, ma’am?” He was smiling at the frank curiosity and excitement in her eyes. “Do I please you?”

She wanted him to turn around so she could see his back view, but she couldn’t quite manage to ask. She nodded in silence.

As if he had read her mind, he slowly turned his back. Impulsively, Juliana leaned forward and touched his buttocks. The hard muscles tightened at her caress, and she rose to her knees, running a finger up from the cleft, flickering in the path of fine dark hair trailing up his spine. “You feel very different from me.”

“Thank the merciful Lord,” he said, turning back to her. Leaning over, he slipped his hands to her shoulders beneath the opened robe and pushed the garment from her. “Now, we meet on equal terms,
mignonne.”
He twitched the robe from beneath her and tossed it to the floor before coming down onto the bed.

His hand passed over her in a leisurely caress that nevertheless insisted that she lie back. Juliana was both curious and excited. She felt no apprehension, and she’d lost all thought of what had brought them there. Instinctively, she reached to touch his erection, clasping the flesh in her hand as he leaned over her. The corded veins pulsed strongly against her palm, and her finger found the dampening tip. Tarquin murmured something, but Juliana knew that what she was doing was right. Her own excitement grew as she caressed him, feeling him flicker and harden against her
hand. She looked up into his face and saw that he, too, was transported, as she had been. That he was lost in his own pleasure, as she’d seen herself in the mirror. Again instinctively, she increased the pressure of her caresses until abruptly Tarquin grasped her wrist and jerked it away from him.

“Enough,” he said hoarsely.

“But why? I know you were enjoying it.”

“You still have a few things to learn,
mignonne.”
He laughed softly as his knee pressed her legs apart.

Juliana parted her thighs. Her hips lifted of their own accord as he slid into her moist, open body. For a moment the stretching fullness in her loins was almost unbearable. She stared wide-eyed into the steady gray eyes holding her gaze.